Harry Potter and the Mind Mage Redux
by Scribe James
Summary: Post OotP, AU as of HBP. Harry comes to grips with the death of his Godfather, and Hogwarts gets yet another new DADA teacher. Just a typical year for the Boy Who Lived, really...or is it?
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter and the Mind Mage

By James Milamber (aka Scribe James)

_Disclaimer: This is a work of Fan Fiction. Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros., and any other relevant parties. No profit is being made from this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
James Milton, Alexander Milton, Cassandra Milton, Isabelle Lestrange and all unique story elements are the sole property of the author, and may not be used without permission._

_A/N: Some of the more observant of you might note that this story carries the same name as another posted on this site. Same author listed on top of this page, even! That's because I am actually James Milamber back from the dead. Unfortunately, since I disappeared from this site all those years ago, FanFiction dot net decided to kill my account. So I'm posting under this new one now._

_Anyone who may have read my humble fic before, know this is NOT the same. It will be similar, involving the same characters, but the pairing will NOT be H/G, and I'm dropping that silly soul bond nonsense. Instead it will be the pairing I've always wished I used the first time around. (No, I'm not telling what that is – yet.)_

_Finally, this new fic is dedicated to two people. CreativeQuill, who taught me so much about both writing and myself; and my beautiful girlfriend, who is the one guilty of restarting my stalled creativity. Without her none of this would have been written._

* * *

'_Wandless Magic'_

_- being an extract from 'Magical Forms and Their Uses' by Malfta Hitchinburg, first published 1951._

_There are several forms of what is commonly referred to as 'wandless magic', although the term in itself is rather misleading. Rather, perhaps it should be called simply 'magic', and the other 'wand magic'. Wandless magic is a more pure form of magic than that which requires a wand, but sadly, the ability to tap into such pure reserves grows less with each passing generation. The most powerful witches and wizards alive today have only a passing knowledge of this great art, capable of casting only rudimentary spells. Some very, very few are lucky enough to be born with innate talent – these may even learn to forgo spells altogether, able to simply create the desired effect with their minds. These powerful individuals are most commonly referred to as 'Mind Mages'. At the time of publishing, only two Mind Mages are known to live in the United Kingdom – Bolsgar Rocksmasher, born to Irish parents in 1662, and Joseph Milter, born to unknown parents in 1856. The former lives the life of a recluse in his native land, while the latter worked in the service of the Dark Lord Grindelwald until his defeat in 1945. His current whereabouts are unknown. There is only one known defining feature common to all Mind Mages, which is the brightness of their eyes. Eye colour also determines power levels, with brown being the weakest through green, grey, blue, to solid black, the strongest. Depending on the level of power being used, the eyes of a Mind Mage have also been known to glow, commonly attributed to the amount of magical energy their bodies are drawing in. Whatever the power level, however, Mind Mages can be extremely dangerous foes, as they can create an effect instantaneously, without the need for incantations, wand waving, and the other trappings of modern magic usage._

_July 14__th__, 1976_

Dirty grey clouds scudded over the overcast skies above London. A soft drizzle wreathed down around the buildings, putting enough water on the ground to make the cobblestones of Diagon Alley treacherous underfoot. Most had sought their homes due to both the hour and the weather, and only a few hardy souls remained out and about, hurrying from shop to shop as darkness descended over the city.

One man, however, strode the near-deserted streets with an easy confidence that belied his youthful appearance. Not a single raindrop touched his light brown hair, as though even nature herself wouldn't dare offend him. He wore a long leather duster over a dark shirt and pants, his long fingered hands hidden within the sleeves of the coat. His bright blue eyes scanned the street with a mixture of wariness and anticipation as he turned a corner down a narrow, crooked side street.

He twisted his way down the alley, ignoring the locals who scurried from his path as he passed. Finally he came to a standstill in front of a black painted door, slightly inset into the left hand wall of the alley.

This was it. The Dark Lord had been most explicit in his instructions. The man appraised the neighborhood in a glance, and snorted derisively.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he muttered, reaching forward and grasping the door handle. He could easily feel the hex embedded within the worn brass. Not a bad job, actually, he mused as with a single thought he erased the spell and turned the handle. The door opened with only the faintest sound, revealing the single room on the other side.

"Hello, young Regulus," the blue-eyed man grinned at the young, black robed figure seated at the table.

Regulus Black glanced up sharply, then smiled slightly. "I think I'm almost touched. Did the Dark Lord really find it necessary to send the great James Milton after me?"

James shrugged, taking a seat opposite Regulus. "You're going to be smart about this, I see. I always knew you were a bit more intelligent than most of the morons that seem to congregate around Voldemort."

Regulus shrugged, settling back into his chair and picking up a tankard from the table. "I'm not deluded enough to think I could fight you, Milton." He took a long drink and gazed at the other man over the rim of the tankard. "Just out of curiosity, did the Dark Lord tell you why he sent you after me?"

"He usually doesn't, and I don't usually ask." This was entirely true, and the reason he'd managed to survive this long – James was completely neutral in the 'war' between the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters, and everyone knew it. He was a mercenary for hire, taking jobs for either side – so long as the pay was right.

Placing his now empty tankard back on the table, Regulus leaned forward in his seat, motioning James to come closer. "I know you're a reasonable man, Milton, so I'll make you a deal. I know the Dark Lord will have paid you extra to make sure my death is as painful as possible. If you give your word to make it painless, I'll give you the information that Voldemort is killing me over. Believe me, it's worth more than any amount of Galleons."

James regarded the other man closely, searching for any signs of falsehood. Finding none, he nodded curtly. "Very well. If the information you have is worthwhile, you have my word I'll make it painless."

Regulus sat back in his chair again, nodding. "I can accept that. Tell me, have you ever heard of a Horcrux?"

Fifteen minutes later, James Milton was back in the alley. He absently swung the door closed behind him, his expression thoughtful as he retraced his steps towards Diagon Alley. Black had been right – _that_ information was worth far more than gold. James grinned to himself as he strolled towards the Leaky Cauldron, and had to fight the irrational urge to start whistling.

* * *

_July 14__th__, 1996_

Harry Potter sat bolt upright in bed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as memories of his nightmare washed over him. Images of his Godfather, Sirius Black, falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries had alternated with memories of his mother screaming as the Dark Lord struck her down with the Killing Curse. Harry's skin felt clammy in the cool air of the smallest bedroom of his 'home', and as his breathing finally began to slow he strained his ears listening for any movement from his relatives. It would not be the first time he had woken his Uncle with his screams as he dreamed, and it had never been a pleasant experience.

Thankfully he heard only the quiet creaking of the house itself. It would seem this time he'd been lucky.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as Harry sank back onto the bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling while his mind seemed to take a perverse delight in replaying his nightmare over and over. His eyes drifted over to his school trunk, positioned beside his bed in place of a bedside table, upon which sat a lone wizarding photograph in a frame. It had been taken by Colin Creevy around Christmas, and showed Harry, Ron and Hermione in the snow, the former with Hedwig perched on his arm while Ron had one arm around Hermione's shoulders. All three were grinning at the camera, and every now and then Hedwig would launch herself off Harry's forearm, fly a few circles of the trio, then come back to her perch and nip playfully at Harry's ear. It was one of the few truly happy moments from the last year, a year marred by Dolores Umbridge's presence at Hogwarts and her ridiculous 'educational decrees'.

Where the picture normally brought a fond smile to Harry's face, however, now it brought only feelings of guilt. Hermione had still not healed fully from the curse Antonin Dolohov had hit her with at the Department of Mysteries, and Ron would be on a strict regime of potions for quite some time after his encounter with the brain-like creature. For the thousandth time since that fateful night Harry cursed himself. It had been his own stupidity, his own impatience that led to their injuries, and for that he would not – could not – ever forgive himself.

He let out a heavy sigh as he rolled over and faced the wall, staring at a hairline crack in the plaster until sleep finally overtook him once more.

* * *

A feminine scream of pure terror pierced the otherwise silent night. A faint smile crossed the thin lips of Lord Voldemort as he watched the western wall of the house finally give way to the fire consuming it and collapse on itself.

He so loved it when they survived long enough to awaken and realise the peril they were in. The weaklings who stayed unconscious took all the fun out of their demise.

A second scream, this one filled with pain, rent the silence as half of the house's roof caved in. Fortunately it was the opposite half to the room where the girl had been restrained – the pain must have been from falling debris. She should survive a little longer, which meant more of the beautiful music that was her screams.

A flash of light caught the Dark Lord's eye and he turned sharply, his wand leaping into his hand. Red eyes narrowed to slits as he swept the length of yew from one end of the empty street to the other, searching for the source of the light.

It would not do for the owner of the house to arrive too soon. No, it would not do at all.

Satisfied that the street was indeed empty, Voldemort turned his attention back to his entertainment. By this time the fire had spread to engulf the entire house, and the screams the girl was emitting were more and more interspersed with coughing fits as she began to succumb to the smoke steadily filling the dwelling.

In the distance, the shrill sound of sirens grew louder, soon blotting out the weakening cries of pain coming from within the burning house. He had tarried too long in his wish to savour the moment his second greatest enemy was broken. He could deal with the muggles, but the few moments of pleasure were not worth the exposure. Lord Voldemort was no fool, and drawing attention with so many dead muggles would surely prove foolish.

A swish of his cloak and the Dark Lord was gone, seconds before two events occurred simultaneously. At the far end of the street, a large red fire truck roared around the corner, it's sirens blaring, lights flashing, and its liquid cargo completely useless as the magically fuelled fire finally weakened the house to the point of total collapse, permanently silencing the feeble cries from within.

Finally, his revenge on the Mind Mage was complete.

* * *

"Albus! Milton is back, and he's on a rampage!"

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sat bolt upright in bed, his bright blue eyes quickly turning to the small fireplace in the corner of his bedchamber. The head of Remus Lupin sat among the dancing green flames, his expression bordering on sheer panic. With good reason, if his words were true – the last time Britain's last remaining Mind Mage had gone on the warpath had been over fifteen years ago, and he had demolished half of Diagon Alley in the process. Even with magic it had taken months to rebuild. Tellingly, however, unlike the rampages of the Death Eaters, there had been no deliberate casualties.

With a speed that belied his age, Dumbledore sprang from the bed and retrieved his wand from his bedside table, using a switching spell to dress himself as he did so. He moved over the the fireplace.

"Remus, assemble the Order at Headquarters. We'll need as many as you can reach. I'll be right through."

"Of course, sir." The fire winked out and Dumbledore hurried out of the room and into his office. Stopping only long enough to check the various magical devices monitoring the well being of Harry Potter, he was very soon spinning through the Floo network towards twelve Grimmauld Place.

In his rush, however, he missed one crucial detail. Something so small he could easily be forgiven for overlooking it. The white smoke coming from the lamp like device that monitored the blood wards around Privet Drive was ever so slightly tainted with a touch of red. In the minutes following the Headmaster's departure, the smoke gradually changed to a blood red colour, before the device emitted a piercing shriek and the smoke stopped altogether.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry Potter and the Mind Mage  
By Scribe James

_A/N: In case anyone's wondering, this is actually a combination of two seperate stories - one, the original HPMM I wrote some years back, and the second is a later idea I had for expanding the back story of one James Milton, my OC and the 'Mind Mage'. There will be random snippets set in the Marauder era that expand on his back story scattered through this fic. I'll try to be as clear as possible as to what is past events and what is present._

_July 21__st__, 1976_

From his vantage point atop a small hill half a mile away, James Milton surveyed the old Victorian style house. Situated near the middle of a fair sized property in Wales, there wasn't another soul for at least ten miles in any direction, which suited him perfectly.

Raising a set of muggle binoculars to his eyes, he carefully checked every window of the house. The Tierne family had a long reputation as powerful enchanters, and any magic could well tip his hand and give his targets a chance to escape. That would probably piss Tom off.

Finding no sign of his quarry from this angle he Disapparated, reappearing on another hilltop on the opposite side of the house.

_Bingo_. An old woman sat on the porch, dozing in the bright afternoon sunshine. Now, he just needed to find...

There was a loud _crack_ of Apparition and an elderly man appeared at the bottom of the steps leading up to the porch. Perfect timing, just as the Dark Lord had said.

The man climbed the steps and shook his wife awake. James couldn't hear their conversation from such a distance, but that was irrelevant. A devilish smirk crossed his lips as he Disapparated again. Maybe this time there would actually be a challenge. He reappeared on the same spot that the old man had done just minutes before, grinning at the couple who were now staring at him, half in shock and half in fear. True, he had just Apparated right through some of the best goblin wards money could buy. The fact that it'd taken him a week to carefully disassemble them was something his targets didn't need to know.

"Ciaran Tierne?" James asked urbanely, sweeping into a mocking bow. He ignored the wife for now, as she was not on the contract. When the man nodded warily, James' smirk grew wider. "I have a message for you from the Dark Lord."

Ciaran's eyes narrowed with anger. "Death Eater." His hand went for his wand, but by the time he could draw it and cast a spell, James had already disappeared.

"Please, don't be insulting," he said from his new location some fifteen feet to the right of where he'd started. "Do I look like I'm stupid enough to follow that raving half-wit?"

"Then why are you here?" Ciaran demanded, stepping forward to place himself between James and his wife, his wand steady as he aimed at the intruder.

"Uncle?" Both James and Ciaran turned sharply at the new voice. A young woman had just come to the back door, and was watching the tense stand-off with trepidation. Her look of puzzlement at noticing the wand in Ciaran's hand could mean only one thing.

"Who's the muggle?" James asked casually. The girl's eyes narrowed, not understanding the word but obviously assuming it was an insult. Before she could speak Ciaran raised a hand to silence her.

"She's nothing to do with this. Neither is Rose." He gestured behind him to his wife, who was now standing with her wand ready. "Let them go."

James shrugged, flipping his hand in the air casually. "I don't care what they do. My contract is only for you, old man."

Ciaran nodded slowly, his face pale as he turned to his wife. "Please, my love, you need to take Andrea and get out of here."

Slowly Rose shook her head, her fingers tightening around her wand. "I made a vow sixty years ago, my love. I'm not going anywhere." She turned a resolute gaze on the muggle girl. "Run, child. Go to the village up the road, and contact your parents. I beg of you, for your own safety, say nothing of what has happened here today." The girl opened her mouth to object, but Rose silenced her with a gesture. "Please, Andrea. Do as I ask. Go, now!" With one last fearful look at James' black robed form, the girl turned and fled.

"So, Mister Milton," Ciaran said, his eyes turning from the retreating girl's back to the intruder. "It seems we will both face you in battle." The elderly man bowed with surprising grace, and when he straightened, he took a classic duelling pose. "We have lived full lives, and we do not fear death. But we shall not make it easy for you."

James inclined his head slightly, acknowledging his target's words. "I can respect that. You understand this is nothing personal, Ciaran. It's just business." With a faint smile he Disapparated once more, reappearing behind the couple. Before either could turn to bring their wands to bear, Rose was hit in the back with a burst of fire. She screamed soundlessly as she crumpled to the ground. Ciaran soon followed his wife into death, impaled by a shaft of ice.

Shaking his head mournfully, James levitated both corpses and lay them with dignity side by side on their porch, their hands just touching. "You died with honour, Ciaran and Rose Tierne. That's more than I can say for most." He bowed his head in respect for the deceased couple, more victims of a war that had claimed too many already. With his eyes on the bodies, he never noticed the slim form creeping up behind him, and as the heavy ceramic pot came down on the back of his head he knew only darkness.

_June 15th, 1996_

_Death Eater Attack on Diagon Alley!_

_By Special Correspondent Michelle Fielding_

_In the early hours of this morning, what appears to be a single Death Eater struck what appears to be the first public blow for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._

_Several eyewitnesses claim to have seen a single black robed man appear in the Alley at around half past two this morning, allegedly in a 'towering rage', to quote _Alyssa Drummond_, who narrowly avoided a confrontation with the perpetrator._

"_I was out late with friends, I was," the distraught witch told this reporter. "Came down the Alley from the Muggle end, towards the Apparition point near the bank. Well, this man in a black robe appears, swearing up a storm! Kept screaming about someone called Tom, and saying he'd get his. Right scary, it was. It was about then he started throwing spells around, didn't seem like he was aiming at anything, just blowing things up at random. Well, I didn't much like the idea of being blown up, so I got out of there quick as I could!"_

_Estimates of the value of the damage have yet to be released by the Ministry, but are expected to run into at least the tens of thousands of Galleons._

_The man is said to have Disapparated as soon as Ministry Aurors appeared._

Deep in the shadows that shrouded the back fence of number six Privet Drive, a black cloaked figure stealthily made their way towards number four. Slipping through the gate into the back garden of the Dursley's house, the figure rapidly crossed the immaculately kept lawn. The Muggle lock provided no barrier to someone armed with a wand, and the figure soon slipped inside and made their way up the stairs, stopping outside the door to the smallest bedroom. Casting a contemptuous glance over the locks attached to the outside of the door, the figure turned the handle and eased the door open with one foot, keeping their wand trained on the bed and it's sole occupant.

Albus Dumbledore prided himself on maintaining his composure even through the most extreme situations. In his nearly two centuries of life, he could count the number of times he'd lost his temper on one hand, even as he watched his oldest friend's descent into darkness, and the subsequent rise of his most promising student to replace him. But right now, looking around at the wreckage of Diagon Alley for the second time in two decades, he found his sense of serenity starting to slip.

Surprisingly, there had been no casualties and only a few minor injuries, although Dumbledore attributed that more to the very early hour of the attack rather than conscious effort on the part of the attacker. From his vantage point on the steps of Gringott's he could see much of the Alley, or what was left of it, and what he saw did not fill him with hope.

The eyewitness accounts had been very clear. This destruction was the work of a single man, and there were only two wizards with enough power and motivation to do this much damage. Tom Riddle would not show himself so early in the game, which left only one possible explanation.

But why now? Why, after fifteen long years of silence, would Britain's only remaining Mind Mage choose to show himself in such spectacular fashion?

Harry's eyes shot open, still staring at the wall from when he'd dozed off. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and he could practically feel the eyes on him. His first thought was that he'd woken his relatives with his earlier nightmare after all, but he quickly dismissed this theory. The footsteps he could hear were much lighter than even his aunt's, and certainly much lighter than his uncle or cousin. The Order had never entered the house before, at least not in the middle of the night like this. That meant only one thing in Harry's mind.

Some would call him paranoid as he subtly grasped the handle of his wand where it lay under his pillow. He would argue, quite rightly, that it's not paranoia if everyone really _is_ out to get you.

As the near silent footsteps got closer to the bed, Harry tensed. When he judged the sound was close enough he exploded into motion, leaping from the bed in the direction he'd judged the intruder to be. He had a brief impression of a black robed figure recoiling in surprise as he lashed out with his left hand, knocking the person's wand out of their hand and landing heavily on their chest. The impact winded both of them, and Harry belatedly realised he'd lost his wand.

They both sat on the floor of the smallest bedroom for a long moment, breathing heavily with Harry half laying on the intruder, his legs pinning theirs and his hands grasped about their rather slim wrists. Just as Harry was beginning to realise how utterly daft this idea had been, a distinctly feminine voice emanated from under the black hood.

"Potter! Get the hell off me, you bloody oaf!"

Harry blinked.

Jerking her hand angrily out of his grasp, the girl's hand came up and pushed the hood down. The dim combination of moonlight and light from the street lamps coming in through the window revealed a pale face framed in long black hair, dark eyes set above aristocratic features. She would have been strikingly beautiful if not for the sour glare she was currently shooting at Harry.

More importantly, her face was familiar. Harry sat blinking down in shock. Pinned to the floor beneath him was a much younger Bellatrix Lestrange.

"This was not entirely how I envisioned this meeting," she muttered, glancing around the room once dismissively before returning her dark eyes to Harry. "Would you mind getting off me, you clot?"

Harry reluctantly released his grip on her wrist and stood, scooping both wands up from where they'd fallen near the end of his bed. He went to offer his hand to help the girl up but she swatted it out of the way and climbed to her feet unaided, her eyes never leaving his. They stood there in silence for a long, awkward moment, before a noise outside drew the girl's eyes away from Harry and toward the window. From this angle little could be seen save for a lone street lamp, but she straightened and nodded as if something had been confirmed.

"Potter, I know this is going to sound completely stupid, but I need you to trust me. We need to get out of here, right now." She reached out and grabbed Harry's wrist, and gave a hard tug in the direction of the door.

"Hold it," Harry said, pulling back so sharply the girl almost lost her balance. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until I know what's going on."

She stared at him, a look of frustration flickering briefly across her features, before she sighed and nodded. "Fine, you can get the short version now. My name is Isabelle Lestrange, and before you ask, yes Bellatrix is my mother. I was born a few months before she went to Azkaban, and if you've a brain in your head you'd know you've seen me before at Hogwarts."

Now that she mentioned it, Harry was sure he'd seen her before. Always in the shadows, never drawing attention, but always watching. "I think I remember you. Slytherin fourth year, right?"

"Give the man a cookie, he has eyes," Isabelle muttered. Harry felt that was rather uncalled for. "Keep up Potter, I won't have time to go through this again. My mother is now loose from Azkaban, and the first thing she did was come and try to claim me, killing my father's squib sister in the process. She then proceeded to rant at me for a few hours about the glory of the Dark Lord, and how I was destined to become his consort, etcetera etcetera. You can see where I'm going with this."

"His...consort?" Harry asked, more than a little confused by the rapid fire succession of facts.

"Yes, his consort. If you'd like a more crude term, his sex slave," Isabelle said dryly. That thought alone was enough to make Harry gag. "Personally I'd rather avoid that, thank you very much. Anyway, she finished her little speech by saying the only one who could stand up to the Dark Lord, which would be you, was to be eliminated tonight." Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced again at the window. "Which means, Potter, that Death Eaters are on their way, led by my darling mother. So unless you'd like to be here when they arrive, I suggest we get the hell out of here."

"But the Order –" Harry started, then clamped his mouth shut.

"What, Dumbledore's bird watching club? Yes, I know about the Order, my mother was rather...irritated with them, after what happened at the Ministry. But unless you know something I don't, there's no way they can help." Harry opened his mouth to speak again, but Isabelle cut him off. "We don't have time for arguments, we need to get out of here now!"

Harry stared at her for a long, tense moment, before finally he nodded and extended his hand, her wand held grip first towards her. "All right, I'll trust you for now. How much time do we have?"

"Not enough," Isabelle said grimly, as the sound of several people Apparating could be heard from the front garden.


End file.
